


Karaoke Night

by jujubiest



Series: Coldflash Trope-iness [4]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barry is salty af, Caitlin Snow cameo, Drunk!Caitlin, Halsey - Freeform, I just threw a bunch of tropes at a wall and wrote what stuck, I still don't know what I'm doing with my life, I'm Sorry, Karaoke, Len is kind of an ass, M/M, Mick Rory cameo, Oliver Queen cameo, Ronnie Raymond cameo, Songfic, This Is STUPID, bartender!Len, cybergoth!Felicity, fratboy!Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity arrives in Central City to cheer Barry up and take his mind off Len. Unfortunately, Felicity's idea of "cheering up" involves cheep alcohol and karaoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Night

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is now a goddamn mess. Nobody has powers. Felicity is still a cybergoth. Oliver is still a frat boy. Nobody is a vigilante...except apparently Batman.
> 
> Felicity and Oliver are definitely OOC, because I've written them both in their "pre-series" personas. This was totally unbeta'd and like, 75% of it was written today at work in between meetings.
> 
> Tropes are bartender AU, karaoke night, songfic...probably others could apply. The only one I actually MEANT to do was karaoke night.
> 
> Obviously I don't own Halsey's song lyrics, no copyright infringement intended.

It’s been three weeks since Leonard Snart’s escape faded from headline news status. One week since Barry finally convinced Joe and Iris that yes, he was fine and yes, he really was ready to go back to his apartment and stay alone and no, he did not need to be in therapy.

Well…maybe that last part isn’t entirely true, because he’s pretty sure anyone who runs away from their entire life on a whim just because a guy with pretty eyes and a voice like sin jumps into their car and says “drive!” is in need of _something._ But he can’t explain that to Joe and Iris, and he certainly can’t tell any therapist.

So he goes back to his apartment, goes back to work and his routine. And if he checks the news a little obsessively, drives to work a little more than necessary just to park in front of the jewelry store, dreams a little too often of Len’s hands on his skin…well. That’s something he just has to deal with alone.

He tells himself no news is good news, that if Len were caught or hurt he would know about it and the fact that he knows precisely nothing means he’s out there somewhere, and that he’s doing just fine. He repeats it to himself like a mantra, because if he lets himself think about the alternative he really will lose his mind.

* * *

Three weeks and one day after Len’s escape, Barry arrives home after work on a Friday and walks into his apartment to find a familiar figure curled up on his couch, asleep. 

“Felicity?” He hangs up his jacket and approaches her curiously, glad to see her but also confused as to what she’s doing here…and how exactly she got into his apartment without a key.

She blinks awake at the sound of her name, yawns, and brushes her dark hair out of her face, smiling up at him.

“Hey,” she says. “Sorry…the tone of your texts lately has been a little concerning. So I decided to come down and make sure you were okay.”

“O…kay,” Barry says, gratified but still confused. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh, that,” she shrugs, pulling a pin from her hair and holding it up by way of explanation. “You know, your locks aren’t all that secure.”

Barry doesn’t know what to say to that. He wonders briefly just how many of his friends have hidden criminal tendencies. But Felicity sees his discomfiture and grins sweetly.

“What? I only use my powers for good, I swear. Anyway, my bus arrived _early_ by some miracle and I didn’t wanna sit out in that hallway all day waiting for you to get home. It’s kinda gross.”

“Agreed,” Barry relents. “Okay, so welcome! I guess. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll be very good company, but—”

“I so don’t care,” she interrupts. “The point was to make sure you’re okay, not to be entertained. Now…” she slides to one side of the little couch and gestures for him to take a seat beside her. He does, and she curls up against his side, the way she always used to when they were watching movies in the college dorms. If he closes his eyes, he could almost be back there.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she says softly. “Anything that reduces _you_ to two-word responses for three solid days has got to be serious.”

“Hey,” he protests, without much enthusiasm. “Are you saying I talk a lot?”

“’A lot’ is an understatement. It’s weird for you to be so quiet.”

Barry sighs and slumps against her, closing his eyes. He was right, this feels just like being back in the dorms, curled up with his best friend, lamenting his ever-unrequited crush on his foster sister.

Except Iris isn’t the one on his mind now…which in itself is strange.

“So…” he says finally. “There’s this guy.” Then he stops, unsure where to go with that. It’s not like he can tell her how they _met._

“Mmhmm,” Felicity encourages, stroking a hand idly through his hair. He leans into the casual touch instinctively. He’s always been ridiculously comfortable with Felicity, easily affectionate, to the point that people used to be absolutely certain they were dating.

The truth is he’s never quite felt that way about her. She’s been his best friend since they met in freshman year, and he might have fallen for at the very beginning of that friendship…but back then he was too hung up on Iris to even look at anyone else. So somewhere along the way, his feelings for Felicity solidified into an easy camaraderie that had exactly no romance or sexual tension mixed up in it. They were just…too close for that, almost, and too much alike, her cybergoth aesthetic notwithstanding. 

So maybe, he thinks, if there’s anyone who will understand where he’s coming from with Len, it’s Felicity.

He takes a deep breath and spills his guts, tells her how he first spoke to Len, how he saw him at the coffee shop, and all about that ridiculous, lost day on the road, playing fugitive. He tactfully skirts around everything that went down in the motel room, though he’s sure she can guess, and recounts in vivid, excruciating detail how Len gave himself up and covered for Barry at the same time. Felicity listens in silence, keeping her hand running soothingly through his hair.

“And now…I dunno. I just...can’t get him out of my head, I guess,” he finishes.

Felicity is quiet for a long minute.

“Have you thought about trying to find him?” She asks finally. The question surprises him.

“Honestly? That never even occurred to me.”

She sits up slightly in order to look at him. Her face is serious, concerned maybe, but she doesn’t look angry, or like she’s judging him. Or, worst of all, pitying him.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know! I just figured…if he wanted to talk to me, he’d find me again. He has my work number.”

“And you never thought maybe he was giving you space? I mean…he _did_ almost get you arrested.”

“Actually, it was kind of the other way around,” Barry admits sheepishly. “It was my dad who tracked him down so fast, because he thought I had been kidnapped. If it weren’t for me, he probably would have gotten away clean.”

“Sounds like he did,” Felicity points out.

“Yeah, in the end I guess, but…I dunno, okay? I can’t just…call the guy up like ‘hey, remember me? I was the rookie getaway driver whose dad hunted you down and arrested you for kidnapping me.’”

“Okay,” she concedes. “So it’s not exactly _Sleepless in Seattle_. But you’ll never know unless you track him down and try, right?”

“I…guess,” he gives in finally, though not without ambivalence. “But I wouldn’t even know where to start looking. And honestly, I kinda just want to _not_ think about him for a night. Or just for a few hours, even.”

“Soooo,” she says, a grin growing on her face. “Let’s go out! Have you actually done anything since all this happened except sit at home and mope around, thinking about him?”

“I don’t _mope_ ,” Barry protests. “But…no. I haven’t really been out much lately.”

“That settles it, then. We’re going out tonight to do something _fun._ Something that will let you express some of those pent-up emotions.”

“Oh…” he says, seeing the gleam in her eye. “No—”

“—ifs, ands, or buts,” she interrupts. “I have just the thing for you, and you _will_ enjoy it.”

And Barry knows Felicity well enough to know that when she uses that tone, your only choice is to buckle up and do what she says.

* * *

Barry looks up at the dilapidated, neon-covered building Felicity has led them to in disbelief. The signs advertising $2 PBRs and all-night karaoke are the only light on the entire street, which is probably a mercy. 

The bar slumps between two almost-featureless concrete storefronts. One appears to be a pawn shop, and the other has no visible signage denoting its purpose. This is a part of Central City he’s actually never been to before, and he’s pretty sure Joe would have a heart attack over him visiting it now. Barry can practically hear him rattling off the crime statistics.

“This is a terrible idea,” he murmurs faintly.

“What was that?” Felicity asks.

“Um…nothing.” He offers her a smile that he hopes isn’t too forced. “It’s just…karaoke? Isn’t that for sad drunks and…and people who grew up singing in church and think they should be on Broadway because they always get the Easter pageant solo?”

“Wow, Mr. Cynical. Tell us how you really feel!” She laughs at him. “No, Barry…karaoke is the last great, non-digital public platform of self-expression for the common man.”

“Uh-huh,” he says skeptically. She grabs his arm and tugs him forward.

“Trust me,” she says as they elbow their way into the surprisingly crowded little bar. “You’re going to go up there, sing your heart out, and forget all about Mr. Gets-Himself-Arrested-Escapes-And-Never-Calls-Again.”

In any other place Barry would ask her to keep her voice down, but somehow he doubts that statement will turn any heads here. He inhales a miasma of smoke, greasy food fumes, and stale beer. The room is so dark and hazy he can barely see the little stage in front of the far wall, despite the fact that the place isn’t that much bigger, end-to-end, than Joe’s living room. He wrinkles his nose doubtfully, but follows Felicity as she weaves through the press of bodies.

She leads them to the bar, somehow snagging them both chairs right next to the stage. Barry wishes she hadn’t; the person singing has a nice gravel tone to their voice, but their drunken slurring and complete lack of ability to carry a tune is doing unspeakable things to “Carry On My Wayward Son.” He cringes, and longs for earplugs.

Felicity flags the bartender down and asks for the songbook before ordering them each a drink. Barry doesn’t pay much attention to what she orders him, too busy scanning the room warily.

There are a _lot_ of people. The thought of singing in front of them twists his stomach into a knot as Felicity takes the songbook from the bartender and plops it down in front of him.

“Pick something good,” she urges him. “And Barry, I’m begging you…nothing recorded before 1990. You are not a hair metal man.”

“No argument here,” he says, turning his attention to the book with some trepidation.

The problem with karaoke in seedy throwback bars is that _most_ of the music available in the songbook was probably recorded before 1990. Barry flips past page after page of classic rock, looking for anything even remotely familiar.

Finally, he finds a section of songs that are actually fairly recent. He scans the page briefly before his eyes land on one in particular that he’s been listening to on repeat lately.

“Got it,” he says absently. He hands the songbook back to the bartender when he brings their drinks, and gives the guy his name, the CD number, and the track.

“Sure thing, man. I’ll put this right into the queue for ya. But hey, if you need anything from here on out, my shift is almost over. That guy over there’ll take care of you, though.”

“Thanks,” Barry says absently, without really looking where the bartender points. He pulls his drink toward him and takes a long pull at the straw, barely suppressing a disgusted face at the taste.

“Rum and Coke, Felicity? Really?”

“Liquid courage,” she says. “You could use some, given how your face is _actually_ turning green. I thought that was just a figure of speech.”

“It’s the weird lighting,” he grumbles. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Drink your courage.” She hops down from her barstool. “I’ll be right back. There’s a guy at the other end of this bar who’s been giving me cow eyes since we came in. I’m gonna go scare him off with my quirky personality."

Barry snorts. “Yeah, you do that, Fe.”

She disappears, and Barry is left to dutifully sip his drink and listen to possibly the worst rendition of “Cherry Bomb” ever. The girl singing is adorable—from what he can see anyway—but she can’t carry a tune to save her life, and also seems to be having trouble staying upright without clutching the mic stand. When she finally finishes, she blows a kiss to the crowd.

“That one’s for you, Ronnie!” She giggles into the mic, before stumbling and nearly falling over. Ronnie—or so Barry assumes—emerges from the chuckling crowd to help her back to her seat. From where he is, Barry has a front row seat to the way the guy looks at her as he carefully deposits her in her chair. It couldn’t be clearer that he thinks this drunk-stumbling girl who can’t sing is the best person on the planet. Barry can’t help but smile at them as they pass, they’re just way too cute.

 _Wow,_ he thinks, glaring suspiciously down at his drink. _How much rum is_ in _this?_

He looks down the bar, searching for the new bartender. The guy’s all the way at the other end with his back to Barry, taking the order of the guy Felicity’s still talking to—some tall, blonde, obvious frat boy. He chuckles sympathetically. _The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance._

Barry raises an arm to wave the bartender over as he turns back this way, and then drops it like a stone a second later when sees the guy’s face.

It’s Len.

And apparently the movement of Barry’s arm was noticed before he could put it down, because his eyes lock on Barry’s face and his whole body freezes up, eyes narrowing first in question and then widening with surprise.

Before he can move toward Barry—or before Barry can run for the door—the guy in charge of karaoke calls his name.

“And next we have Barry, singing ‘Is There Somewhere.’ Barry, if you’re still here…come on up!”

“Woooo, that’s my guy!” Felicity crows a little tipsily from the back of the room. “Leave it all up there, Bear!”

Len raises an eyebrow at him, and Barry feels his face burning. He suddenly _deeply_ regrets the choice of song, but it’s too late to make a run for it now. So he slides off his barstool and makes his way to the mic, trying not to feel the weight of Len’s eyes on him the entire way.

He adjusts the mic as he waits for the music to start, staring resolutely over the heads of the featureless crowd and letting the spotlight blind him. His body is buzzing with the sudden influx of alcohol, and for a moment he panics, thinking he might have forgotten the words.

He takes a deep breath and tries to empty out his head, tries to think of anything but the words he’s about to sing and the person who’s going to hear them. He’s just wishing he had made a run for the door when he had the chance, and then there are words appearing on the prompter.

Barry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He knows the song by heart, his panicked memory lapse notwithstanding, and he doesn’t think he can handle actually seeing them.

“You were dancing in your tube socks in a hotel room,” he begins, the notes of the background music rising up from the speakers to surround him. His voice sounds weak and shy to his own ears, easily overpowered by the music. “Flashing those eyes like highway signs. Light one up and hand it over. Rest your head upon my shoulder. Just wanna feel your lips against my skin.”

His voice almost cracks on that line, and he takes the brief break in the lyrics to move the mic away from his face and clear his throat before continuing.

“White sheets, bright lights. Crooked teeth and the night life. You told me this is right where it begins. But your lips hang heavy underneath me…and I promised myself I wouldn’t let you complete me.”

Barry forces his eyes open, some vague sense of defiance warring with his mortification. He ignores the prompter, ignores the crowd, and tries to just let himself get into the song.

“I’m trying not to let it show, that I don’t wanna let this go. Is there somewhere you can meet me? ‘Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railings. And you clutched my brain and eased my ailing.”

And just like that, it’s easier. He lets the music wash over him, loses himself in the lyrics and lets the strange ache he’s been feeling for weeks now take him over. He doesn’t think about Len—well, doesn’t think about the fact that he’s watching, anyway. But he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t _all_ about Len…the way he came out of nowhere, the way he disappeared just as abruptly, and the way he made Barry feel through all of it.

Barry even starts to enjoy himself a little bit, reveling in the emotions, in expressing them finally. It feels a hell of a lot better than all the wallowing he’s been doing.

Even the last lines, sung out with almost no background music, stark and loud and too revealing in the stifling little room, aren’t enough to kill his enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry, but I fell in love tonight. I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight. You’re looking like you fell in love tonight. Could we pretend that we’re in love?”

A moment of ringing silence follows the final notes, and then there’s a surprising amount of cheering and clapping.

“Well!” Says the deejay, a note of surprise in his voice. “Thank you Barry! Gonna be a hard act to follow folks, but I think our next guest is up to it!”

The deejay keeps talking, but Barry doesn’t hear the name of the person who’s up next. He doesn’t see Len behind the bar any longer, either, and the absence makes him feel strangely vindicated as he bypasses his previous seat in favor of going straight to where Felicity is—somewhat surprisingly—still talking to Obvious Frat Boy.

She puts the conversation on pause when he reaches them and pulls him in for a one-armed hug.

“Wow, Bear! That was amazing. I mean I’ve heard you sing pretty well in the shower, but you really outdid yourself!”

“And everyone else who’s been up there,” put in Obvious Frat Boy, sticking his hand out. “Oliver.”

“Barry,” he says, shaking the offered hand. “You uh…actually look a little familiar,” he blurts as he realizes it.

“Uh…yeah,” Oliver says, clearly uncomfortable. “Guess I have one of those faces?”

“Guess so,” Barry says dubiously, because he doesn’t think that’s it. It’s not just the bland All-American College Slacker look of him; Barry’s sure he’s seen this guy’s face before. But he lets it drop in favor of trying to egg Felicity on to sing something with him.

“C’mon! I just did it! What about all that stuff you said about the common man expressing themselves!”

“Excuse you,” she sniffs. “ _I_ am not the common man. And unlike _some_ people, I express myself just fine. Where the hell is that bartender?”

“Right here,” says a horribly familiar voice, and Len emerges from the back, a crate of freshly-cleaned glasses in his arms. “Bear with me, folks, I’m flying solo tonight.”

“No problem,” Felicity says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the sudden change in Barry’s demeanor.

Without the distance created by the spotlight, the music surrounding him, the barrier of the faceless crowd, Barry suddenly feels dizzy with mortification. He forces himself to turn his head and meet Len’s eyes, expecting to be laughed at for that ridiculous performance.

What he sees instead is some incomprehensible mix of emotions that he can’t even begin to untangle. He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to apologize for being embarrassing, when a thought strikes him out of nowhere.

“Wait a minute!” He reaches across the bar and drags Len down a few chairs, enough distance to keep Felicity or Oliver from hearing them over the music.

“Are you casing the street for another job?!”

Len looks at him incredulously, though whether it’s at his question or at being manhandled, Barry isn’t sure. Either way, he leans in and answers under pretense of wiping the bar down.

“First of all, keep your voice down. And secondly, _no._ Did you take a look around on your way in here? I’d have to be crazy, stupid, or _both_ to pull a job on this street. Even if there was anything worth stealing.”

“So you’re just…innocently bartending, no ulterior motive whatsoever.”

“I do it for the free music,” Len says flatly, fixing Barry with an unimpressed glare. Barry shakes his head.

“Cryptic. Nice. I really missed _that._ ” He says sarcastically. Len tosses the dish towel aside and braces both arms on the bar on either side of Barry, leaning all the way into his space. Barry thinks maybe it was meant to be intimidating, but the way he utterly fails to react like a normal person and _lean away_ from the invasion of personal space kind of ruins the effect. He looks at Len, a little defiant and a little bit pleading, and watches his face change as he registers Barry’s completely obvious and pathetic yearning.

“You don’t have to tell me how much you missed me,” Len says finally, and far too smugly. “I got the message the first time.”

Barry opens and closes his mouth like a fish for a moment, at a loss for words. When he finds them, they come out sharp and harsh, wounded and seeking to wound in kind.

“You—I—you know what? I’ve been thinking about you this whole time. I wanted to see you again so badly…I kept hoping I’d hear from you. I had _dreams_ about it. And now…I have _no idea_ why.”

With that, he shoves himself away from the bar and Len, calls a half-hearted goodbye to Felicity, and starts winding his way toward the door.

“Bear…hang on!” He hears Felicity behind him, but he doesn’t stop or turn back to answer her. He doesn’t stop until he’s out on the street again.

He takes a grateful gulp of the cold night air, already feeling like his head is on a little straighter. He isn’t sure why he let Felicity talk him into this. It was a bad idea from the word go.

“Barry!” Felicity steps outside, looking concerned. “What happened? Was the bartender harassing you?”

Barry almost laughs.

“Not exactly,” he says. “That was…uh, the guy.”

Felicity’s brown eyes go wide.

“Wait, _the_ guy? He was the bartender?”

“Yeah,” Barry says ruefully, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Of all the karaoke joints in all the cities in all the world, huh?”

“Yeah,” Felicity echoes absently. “Wait…I mean…no.”

“No?”

“I just mean…what are the chances? I mean of all the bars in Central City, all the _places,_ what are the chances your guy would just _happen_ to be working at the one I picked?”

“He’s _not_ my guy,” Barry says truculently. Felicity rolls her eyes.

“You are so missing my point. Barry,” she says patiently. “It’s too big a coincidence. Things like that just _don’t happen._ ”

“Okay, so what’re you saying?” He asks, letting some of his frustration show through. “That he somehow…knew I would be here? And decided to get a job here at the drop of a hat to show up and see me?”

“Well…no, that does seem a little far-fetched as well,” she concedes. “But like…he’s either lojacked you or it’s fate. Which one do you find more likely?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” comes Len’s voice from the direction of the door. Barry spins so fast he nearly falls, and is caught in spite of himself by the sight of Len framed in the door, the eerie multicolored haze of the bar rising behind him: jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, the close-cropped dark hair, and that face that always seems on the verge of smirking.

“I don’t have you lojacked. Scout’s honor.”

Barry snorts.

“Somehow I _really_ doubt you were ever a boy scout.”

Len puts up his hands defensively.

“Hey, you got me. Seriously, kid. I’m a lot of things, but I’ve never had any desire to add ‘stalker’ to my resume.”

“So…what?” Felicity challenges. “You’re saying it was fate, then?”

“I’m saying it’s a big damn coincidence. One I’m not terribly unhappy with.” He takes a step forward, but stops at Felicity’s glare.

“Put away the laser eyes,” he says. “I just wanna talk.”

Felicity looks at Barry. “Do you want to talk to him? We can just go.”

Barry looks at Len for a moment, hard. The cocky façade is firmly in place, but there’s something in his eyes…something soft and familiar that sets that strange ache going behind Barry’s ribcage all over again.

“No, Fe, it’s fine. I’ll talk to him. You go have fun with Oliver.”

“Fine,” she said. “And also, oh please. Pretty sure I’m almost at the end of the line with that one, conversation-wise. But for you, anything.” She stands up on her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek, then gives Len a final glare and an “I’m watching you” hand gesture before disappearing back inside the bar.

Barry turns back to Len, unsure of what to say. It turns out he doesn’t have to say anything, because as soon as Felicity is gone Len is _right there,_ stepping in close enough that Barry either has to step back or grab on to keep his balance.

He grabs Len’s arms without really stopping to choose. The fabric of the shirt is soft, bunches easily under Barry’s hands.

“So…you were thinking about me,” Len starts.

“Only a couple of times a day,” Barry admits sheepishly. To his surprise, Len actually grins, small but real.

“And your _interesting_ choice of song—”

“Oh god,” Barry interrupts. “Was way over the top and you were never _ever_ supposed to hear that.”

Len shrugs. “I can live with it. I didn’t hear anything I hated.”

Barry blinks a few times, wondering if he heard that right.

“You…no?”

“No,” Len says, and then he pulls Barry the rest of the way in and plants a kiss on him that has him swaying on his feet, ready to fall over the second he’s let go.

But Len doesn’t let go, at least not immediately. He does pull back just enough to give Barry a smile that’s _still_ just a shade too smug for his liking.

“I’ll see you around, Barry.”

“Promise?” Barry blurts, feeling pathetic.

“Yeah, kid,” Len says softly. Then he slips away before Barry can ask when, or how to contact him, or whether he’s going to go back inside and finish his shift.

Apparently not.

* * *

The next morning, Barry wakes to the sound of Felicity’s muffled groan as she shuffles in from the bedroom.

“Coffee,” she mumbles pitifully. “My kingdom for a shot in the dark with like, three and a half extra shots. And a Bloody Mary. And like…six aspirin.”

“Some of us know when to quit,” Barry calls from the couch.

Felicity turns and glares at him from under a bedraggled curtain of hair.

“I will end you, Barry Allen. Slowly. Painfully.”

“Now, now,” he says, sitting up. “You shouldn’t end someone who’s gonna buy you coffee and a greasy breakfast.”

The glare disappears instantly to be replaced by a sunny—if somewhat tired—smile.

“I love you, Barry Allen. I will love you forever and ever and ever.”

“That’s better,” he laughs. “Just let me changed and we’ll go, since you slept in your clothes.”

The glare comes back, and follows him all the way to the bathroom. It continues over his shoulder while he brushes his teeth.

“You shouldn’t judge, Barry,” she says finally. “I was too exhausted from all that flirting to get undressed when we got back. After all, not everyone can pick up a criminal mastermind in mid-heist. Some of us have to contend with playboy billionaires hiding out in seedy bars.”

Barry rinses and puts his toothbrush back before answering.

“Not sure I’d call Len a mastermind, exact— _playboy billionaire_?”

“Mmhmm,” Felicity says, looking like the cat that ate the canary. “That guy I was talking to last night, remember?”

“Who, Oliver the Obvious Frat Boy?”

“That’s Oliver the Obvious Frat Boy _Queen_ , to you.”

“Wait a minute… _Oliver Queen_? I knew I knew his face from somewhere! But you were getting hit on by _Oliver Queen_?! That guy’s like… _literally_ a billionaire!”

“I know,” Felicity grins. “Which means I’m absolutely not his type. I mean, he was probably here hiding from his society girlfriend or something. But hey…that just means I don’t have to worry about him calling the number I gave him when I was three sheets to the wind and _you_ were staring into your _second drink,_ mooning over Mr. Skipped-Out-On-His-Shift-To-Make-Out-With-A-Customer-Before-Fading-Into-The-Night-Like-Motherfucking-Batman.”

“Remind me to warn whoever you marry that you’re not allowed to name any of your children. Or pets. Or electronics.”

Felicity pouts.

“Fine,” Barry laughs, rolling his eyes. “Put that face away. You can name _one_ pet. But no kids. Now let’s get you some coffee so you can tell me all about what you and _Oliver Queen_ were talking about for four hours.”


End file.
